Ashamed
by Mrs S Eyre
Summary: A friend was wondering how Luka and Abby managed to live together after he confession about Moretti; this is my response.


Twice they'd done it since he got back from Croatia

**Ashamed**

Twice it had happened since he got back from Croatia. The first time, his first night back, he'd been ardent and eager and ended up confused and uncertain, because wherever her head and her heart had been that night they hadn't been there in that bed with him. She'd made excuses, told him she was just tired, made herself lie in his arms, glad he'd been up before her the next day, hating herself and feeling herself starting to hate him too. After that she had her excuses ready, avoiding, evading, not offering him her arms even the night his father died, seeing confusion turn to hurt turn to anxiety turn to sadness in his eyes and hating herself for it and hating him because she hated herself.

Then there had been a night in Croatia, sitting in an unlit room in his father's house at dusk, his concession to her pleading for the lights to stay off, as she'd told him exactly what she'd done to be ashamed of, sure that he'd already figured it out and maybe he had, although she was sure he hadn't expected Joe to be thrown into the mix, but hearing the words … she stared at her hands and didn't look at him, didn't try to make out his face in the dark.

She'd felt him go completely still. He said one word, very quiet, a little incredulous: "Moretti?", and then she was aware of movement and realized that he was running his right palm along his thigh, over and over and she understood, he'd shaken the mans hand, shaken his hand and smiled at him, joked with him, shaken his fucking hand.

She'd not had the sense to shut the hell up then, to be still while he absorbed the blow, no, she babbled on and on about how it was meaningless, it meant nothing, she was so low, so lonely, she was drunk off her ass, she hadn't known what she was doing, justifying, justifying, it's so hard for me to tell you this, I feel so bad about it, and even as her voice spoke what she knew to be all the wrong words another voice inside her said "shut up, shut up, shut up" and then it wasn't in her head, it was his voice.

"Shut up." In a stride he was standing over her, pulling her to her feet, one hand at the back of her neck, not gentle, implacable, and his mouth was on hers. Breathing hard he released her, stepped back, ran the back of his hand across his mouth and turned to walk away.

She'd made a grab for him and if talking had been a mistake this was a worse one. Before she had a chance to speak he was on her, her feet out from under her, the wall unforgiving against her back, and she thought she knew the sensation of dying. He was about to show her exactly what a meaningless fuck really was, and she knew that if such a thing ever happened between them then something inside her really would die. Worse, something inside him would die, something he'd never get back, and whatever else she did in this marriage she had to stop him doing that to himself.

Except he was wrong; so much meaning in the way his hands were on her, in the way her clothes were disarranged, her skirt pushed up to her hips, in the tears she sensed in his eyes. She managed to lay a hand on his face, to gasp out his name, once, twice, and he'd sobbed and let her slide from his grasp. For a moment he stood, his arms braced on the wall either side of her, trembling with rage or terror or pain or loathing, she didn't know, and it didn't matter, he had a right to all of them. At last he stepped back from her.

"Now we can both be ashamed". They'd slept in separate beds that night.

The next day he'd come to stand behind her as she stared out of the window, and he'd run the back of his fingers down her arm. She closed her eyes, recalling a Christmas that seemed like a lifetime ago. Maybe it was. He didn't speak and in the end she'd turned her head and said "I know".

They'd never spoken of it again. He'd stayed out of her bed for two nights and when he came back to her he made no attempt to touch her. She went to sleep tense, keeping her distance, woke up exhausted. The night before they came back to Chicago she'd woken in the night weeping and then he'd held her, not speaking. She'd clung to him and sheer proximity did its work, but it wasn't right however much they both wanted it to be. Afterwards he turned away from her again and then she fought for breath and cried.

He hadn't kissed her.

And so it had continued when they got back. They shared a bed but she'd come so close to offering to sleep on the sofa rather than spend one more night tense, rigid, each waiting for the other to fall asleep, each glad if the other's breathing betrayed the fact that exhaustion had finally got the better of them. She cried often those nights and she was pretty sure he knew it but he didn't turn to her. It was fair enough; he had his own tears to deal with.

It was almost a relief when he moved out. Almost.


End file.
